It was in a gift shop
in a back street
I was drawn to it
and the single word, “Yesterday”
printed on the tiny cardboard box.
The little metal handle with the red bead
spun a tune from the past.
One that replayed a youth I’d lost so long ago.
A lament of loss,
of a need to turn back time
and once more I embraced that old feeling of …
Turning the little red handle
ghosts paraded through
a stifled tear.
At once I wanted to cry pain, cry anger,
to fly back to another time,
to take my hammer and violently build.
I was resigned to
stand in a little shop
where I didn’t understand the language
and just be with an old melancholy.
A presence at my elbow,
“I’ll buy that for you.”
grandson, spending my money on gifts for me.
But what price? Yesterday.
Now the little music box movement,
sits on my desk – just under the computer
and near the desk lamp.
It sits asking that question of yesterday,
Till next week,